


Mamie

by TeaHouseMoon



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Big Brother Mycroft, Gen, GrandMere - Freeform, I Made Myself Cry, I'm Sorry, I'm sad today, Johnlock - Freeform, Kidlock, Little Sherlock in France, Love Hurts, M/M, Protective Mycroft, Series 4, Setlock, but sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-26
Updated: 2016-04-26
Packaged: 2018-06-04 17:58:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6668626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeaHouseMoon/pseuds/TeaHouseMoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Whenever Sherlock thinks back at the summers of his childhood – whenever he indulges such thoughts, however briefly – he remembers that, when they visited Grand-mère, the sun always shone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mamie

**Author's Note:**

> My April offering for the 12in12 prompt challenge. The pictures I chose to inspire my story are: 
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> This story is sad, I'm sorry, but after the pictures from Setlock today this is how I'm feeling. :(

Whenever Sherlock thinks back at the summers of his childhood, in France – whenever he indulges such thoughts, however briefly – he remembers that, when they visited _Grand_ - _mère_ , the sun always shone.

 

 _Grand_ - _mère_ lived in a small town just outside Paris. Sherlock doesn't remember visiting the town; they had been, perhaps once or twice, but _Grand_ - _mère_ had a big house with a big garden in the middle of a big field, and so, as far as little Sherlock was concerned, he couldn't ask for more.There were rooms to explore and staircases to run up and down on, when Mummy wasn't around to fret; there was a little cave with a fountain in the garden, and rose bushes with thorns that he'd learnt to spot and avoid - and even if a new one sprung and pricked him, it wasn't too bad, because _Grand_ - _mère_ fussed and gave him kisses and sweet canelés and let him stay up late with her, reading.

There was a dog he’d befriended, Redbeard – rusty red fur ruffled and unkept and its tongue always hanging out of its mouth, and it looked like it was smiling.  
But most importantly, there were no other children to pick and laugh at him. Nobody he needed to try hard to walk past; nobody to make fun of his long curls, of his books, of his fondness for thinking.

There was Mycroft, of course. Mycroft was fourteen, an adolescent with a permanent frown on his grown-up face. “Sherlock, don't be absurd,” he said, every time Sherlock looked at him with rebellious blue eyes and hands muddy  from his trips outside with Redbeard. “Mummy and daddy will be cross.” Or when he wanted to stay up late because he couldn't sleep; or when he refused to eat anything aside from biscuits.

“Mummy wants me to look after you,” Mycroft said in his stern voice, deep already for his age, to remind Sherlock of his authority.

They stayed in the house for most of their month-long holiday, but sometimes they went on trips – to the lake, to the farm; once or twice, to Paris, with Grand-père.

Sherlock knew Paris was a city, just like London, but it seemed so small compared to it; he knew he couldn't get lost. So he went off exploring – there was an alley, a few steps away from the Tour Eiffel, from the square where tourists took pictures and chattered excitedly. The alley was much more interesting, damp and dark and full of secrets; but when Sherlock returned, Grand-père was upset, he was angry. He looked down at Sherlock, at his dirty stubby hands, asked where he’d been, told him it was wrong of him to leave and where had he gone? Everybody was looking for him!  
He was going to tell Mummy and he was going to send Sherlock to bed without supper and without Redbeard.

That day, Mycroft’s jacket had been soft and warm on the shoulder when Sherlock pushed his nose into it, hiding his sobs. Mycroft’s hand in his curls stroked; he told him _don't worry. I will not let that happen. I will never let anything happen to you._

 

 _Grand–mère’s_ house had the perfect nook for reading. A small sofa right by a big window, snug in between two bookcases full of books with brightly coloured spines that stood out haphazardly. Sherlock sat there, lay on his belly sometimes, and read and read. Books in French, books in English; science books were his favourite. Sometimes Redbeard slept at his feet, in a sun beam. Sometimes, _Grand_ _-_ _mère_ sat with him.

“The picture of your mother, you are,” she said once, when Sherlock had his nose in a chemistry book. “Blue eyes, that beautiful little face. And the mind of a scientist.” With her soft, thin hand she stroked down his face, from his forehead to his cheek and his chin; her thumb caressed his mouth, and Sherlock smiled.

“What will I do when I grow up, _Mamie_?” Sherlock’s accent was perfect.

 _Grand_ _-_ _mère_ knew things; she knew a lot, she knew the future.

“You will do everything you want. You will study, you will read books, and you will be so clever.”

Sherlock’s mouth curled upwards, pleased; out of the corner of his eye he spied Mycroft, stood by the open door. Watching.

“Will I be as clever as Mycroft, _Mamie_?”Sherlock asked, eyelids batting, ready to stick his tongue out to his brother.

“Yes, _mon poussin._ ” _Grand_ _-_ _mère_ laughed – it was such a crystalline laugh. She stroked his cheek again, and her eyes went soft. “ _Mon chéri,_ you will be so loved. You will be so loved, you will find someone who loves you so much. And you will love this person even more.”

Sherlock’s child eyes went wide. “Who is this person, _Mamie?_ Who is it?”

That laugh again. “I don't know, my darling. No one knows. But you will find them.”

“ _Grand_ _-_ _mère_.”

Mycroft’s voice had sounded firm. He'd taken a step towards them and he was looking at them, frown in place, dark blue eyes hard.

“Don't say these things. Don't tell him these things.”

They both turned towards him – Sherlock’s face, in a frown mirroring his brother’s, and in his little face it was sweet, it was endearing. But he was cross, so cross with Mycroft.

“Why not, Darling?” _Grand_ _-_ _mère_ looked confused; a bit sad. Mycroft's hard eyes weren't directed at her. They stared, unmoving, at Sherlock's face - Sherlock who stared back in confusion and pique, and now with his lower lip sticking out a bit, in the beginning of a pout. Mycroft did not say anything; he just exhaled through his nose, not overtly, not rudely, but like he couldn't help it - and then turned on his heels and left, as quietly as he'd come.

 

 

"Why do you say those things?" Sherlock asked the day after. It was sunny, still, and grand-mere had taken them on a picnic out in the field; someone was flying a kite, it was square and made of different colours and it stood out against the unperturbed blue of the sky. Sherlock liked to stare at it until the brightness made his eyes water.

Mycroft sighed. Sherlock looked at him, sat on the grass, his black faux leather shoes unmarred by dirt, so unlike his own; he looked at his brother's back, so stiff and rigid.

He wished he could also carry himself the same way.

"I say them because they’re true."

Sherlock blinked, looked down at the grass and a wilted flower, and maybe a shamrock. His eyes felt full of tears even though he wasn't looking at the sky, and he bit his lower lip.

"You don't want people to love me?" he asked, feeling so angry. So cross.

Mycroft turned towards him, so quick, an eyebrow raised and eyes wide as if he were in shock.

"Whatever made you think that! Don't be ridiculous, now."

Sherlock didn't know whether he should go, or stay, whether Mycroft wanted him to leave, go back to his games and childish pastimes and those worlds Sherlock built in his head all the time and which Mycroft berated him for. Mycroft did not look away, though: his mouth suddenly relaxed, his eyes lost a bit of edge. When Sherlock was really little, that was the face Mycroft had just before he stroked his hair, planted a kiss on his forehead and made him laugh.

Sherlock liked that; but they were older, now.

"Sherlock," Mycroft started. His voice still firm. "There is a lot of pain, that comes with love. A person you love is a person you want to protect, that you want to make happy. A person who depends on you and who can be hurt, because of you. And you, because of them."

Sherlock looked ahead, at the field and the grass. He sniffled. A few moments later, Mycroft spoke again.

"I will always be there for you, little brother. I worry about you. But I want you to remember: caring is not an advantage."

A voice resounded in the distance, excited at the fluttering of the kite in the sky. Sherlock blinked again, sniffled; looked ahead, at the very end where the sky met the edge of the field - and this time, there were no tears in his eyes.

" _Grand_ _-_ _mère_ knows the future," he said, his child voice stubborn and unwavering.

Mycroft nodded.

"I hope she's right, then."

 

 

 

The fire is crackling quietly, but his fingers feel cold when he gently pulls the curtains to the side, to better look out of the window. It's April, but outside, it's freezing; the clear crisp sky has been changeable all day, threatening rain and snow and sleet.

Sherlock looks on, as John and Mary cross the street, walk to the black cab there waiting for them. Mary is laughing, eyes crinkled at the corner; John smiles back, a giggle on his face, too. On his chest, he's got a bundle – pink and soft, fluffy with fleece and wool; two tiny legs and tiny arms dangling from the straps that hold it snug against John’s front. A tiny, pale sleeping face is visible just above John’s heart.

John and Mary are happy. They are happy and there's love, Sherlock can see, love for the baby, and love in a marriage.

Sherlock thought he knew love. Thought he'd been loved. Thought John loved him; and oh, how he loved John.

How he still loves him.

With all his heart and his mind, his whole self, so much, to the point of sacrificing everything for him.

But John is with someone else. He's happy, with someone else.

 

 _Grand_ _-_ _mère_ had been right, so many years ago. She said he'd love and yes, he has loved. He loves. But Mycroft had been right too, that love hurt.

 

Doors slam closed and the cab leaves slowly, and Sherlock watches it drive away.  
He’s alone.

 

Love hurts so much.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Please leave a comment if you enjoyed it. It would cheer me up. xx


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